One More Miracle
by MasqueradingMe
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock performs the miracle John requested, but even miracles have side-effects. One-shot.


Author's Note: I have invented some family members for John. Just because.

* * *

**One More Miracle**

Chatter. Surrounded by friends and family. How sick is it that I cannot feel my smile. Not even with them.

The doorbell. Talk drops to a hum as my father excuses himself to answer it. The fifth (or was it sixth) youngest niece beats him to it, tumbling down the stairs, out of view but audible as always as she yanks the door open and asks, "Who are you?"

"May I help you?" my father echoes. There's something in his voice; he doesn't know the visitor. Wasn't expecting anyone.

The reply is too low for words to be discerned, but not so low that the voice cannot be heard. And recognized.

The world tilts. I'm suddenly standing, but don't remember moving.

Concerned looks from my loved ones. They are more familiar to me that my own. How many times have I gotten these looks since-

Footsteps on the stairs.

I know that tread.

But it cannot-

it cannot-

A mop of dark brown curls appears over the railing. I know that hair. That coat and raised collar. That face. Those cutting blue-green eyes.

"May I take your coat?"

"Thanks." His voice. My blood sings in my veins.

Behind me, the table of people shift, staring from me to him as we stare at each other. Silence.

I take two steps, two steps towards him before I realize it and force. myself. to. stop.

"You-" my voice is rough with an emotion I don't want to display, don't even want to feel.

Hope.

Fear.

Among other things.

"You've gained a pound of muscle," he says. And it's the same. The damned same. "Are you bulking up to have arms with your students? At an...urban college, is it? Or are you planning to attempt another round of army service?" His face is sober, but there's a hint of that old, self-satisfied smirk there.

It's him. It's Sherlock.

I let out a bark of laughter. Even I can hear the near panic in it.

"Let me guess," I say automatically, "It was the ink on my hands, from a certain kind of pen that's only issued in colleges. And the kind of dirt on my shoes could only mean that I've been in the city recently."

He's almost smiling now, the tension easing in his shoulders. He doesn't hear the anger behind my amusement. Doesn't see it behind my blank expression.

He takes a step forward. Bringing the gap between us to a mere two meters. Shakes his head. "No," he says, "Mycroft told me."

"Of course."

Tension hangs in the air between us. I sway slightly. His eyes narrow ever, ever so slightly. His hand comes up a few inches.

_He reaches for me. Spanning the distance from roof to street with one motion and his voice, his beloved voice, over the phone._

A chair scrapes behind me.

I straighten. Clench my fists. No one touches me.

"I saw it." My whisper is harsh in the cheery yellow living room. I take a step forward, holding my anger tight, wrapping it around my wounds and propelling me forward. Because the last thing I want to do is go back. Back to-

"You were dead."

Movement behind me as our audience, my boon, realizes who this man is.

He is perfectly still. Watching. Trying to use that great intellect to figure out what words I need to hear. What will make it better.

"They had a sniper on you," he says.

Shock. Electricity up my spine. Fear.

"You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson," he continues, serious, oh so serious, "And those snipers had snipers, and those had more, and so on and so forth, a whole web of them. I could either watch each of you die or..."

_Blood. There was so much blood. So much more that you would expect. And so wrong on __**his**__ face, in __**his**__ hair. God, so much blood._

"And did you enjoy it?" I ask, determined to hold on to my anger, determined not to cry. "Did you enjoy chasing them down?"

He doesn't answer.

Smart man.

But I can see it. He may be good at acting, but there is no one that can read him like I can.

I can see his pride in the way he holds his hands. I can see the truth he won't admit in the way he doesn't blink. I can see the remembrance of the adrenaline in the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Three steps. So close I can smell him. Same soap.

My fist flashes out.

He rocks back. Holds his face. Looks back at me with calm eyes.

"I was expecting that earlier," he says.

Stupid.

I hit him again. Twice.

He hits the ground with a thump and I'm on my knees above him, his shirt (that damned purple shirt that fits him so damned well) fisted in my hands. There's blood on my step-mother's carpet.

"You arrogant, selfish, smart-ass sod," I grind out, leaning in close to glare at him. To drown him in my anger, my hurt.

"You unfeeling, inconsiderate sociopath," I continue, and the cursed tears start to leak out of my eyes, "I died- I d- I died every day, Sherlock. Every day. Waiting. Waiting-for something to-matter again."

He does not say, "Me too." I almost wish he would. Lie, I mean.

He stares up at me, props himself up on his elbows and stares.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
